Bridges Yet to Be Burned
by RadicalThinker
Summary: A familiar face keeps appearing in Montag's dreams and in his everyday life. Montag thinks he's going crazy. People don't come back from the dead; or so he thinks. Set seven years after the book. A MontagxClarisse fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE:

Montag arrived with the rest of the men, compacted together as they trudged through the wreckage. A large layer of dust had settled over the rubble, soot still drifting through the area like a swarm of locust. All was silent except for the sounds of their footsteps. It ricocheted through the destruction; speaking louder than they, than any man, than any _book_ could. It was there everywhere they looked-bodies littered the streets, buildings laid in pieces on the floor, car were smashed beyond recognition.

"Horrible." Wheezed a man by the name of Oliver. Montag turned his gaze towards him, watching as he pressed his sleeve coat to his mouth, his wandering gaze moving across the damage before they finally rested on him. He was Montag's age; a bit shorter, with gangly limbs and an oval face, a turned up mouth and hazel eyes filled with sadness. Montag stood there for a moment, unsure on what he should do. "We have to look for survivors."

Montag was surprised to hear his own voice; he had not expected his voice to sound so calm, so normal. He should have felt sad; it was, after all, a time of mourning, a time to grieve. _For what_, Montag thought savagely, his eyebrows coming together in aggravation. Overwhelming shame filled him then. Millions of people were dead; Mildred was dead. A hot needle of pain filled his chest and Montag bent for a moment, gasping as he did. Mildred. She was gone. Dead. He remembered something, about meeting her-Chicago. That was what he remembered, all he could remember for now because his mind was running and his chest was too tight for him to even try to breathe and his eyes had begun to water once more, causing tears to trickle down his dirty cheeks, leaving streaks.

A hand clasped his back and Montag straightened, turning his gaze to the person. Granger was there, a lone tear on his cheeks. He met Montag's eyes and gave his a flash of upturned lips-it was too small to be considered a smile and Montag knew that it would be a while before they would smile. Perhaps they would never smile; they would be stuck, with pain and bitterness and forbidden words as their only companions.

Montag turned his back on the men and began his trek down the city streets, eyes flittering about. The silence was now beginning to dissolve; wails had begun to puncture the air, loud shrieks of anger and despair slicing through the silence like a knife. Montag still continued on his way, his boots crunching the dirt as he did. He could hear shuffling behind him. He glanced back and was surprised to find all the men right on his heels. Every now and then, a man would break ranks to check the area, but they would return empty-handed, their faces appearing glum at not being able to help anyone.

Montag continued on, allowing his body to walk towards the wails; they were like sirens, ringing shrilly through the air, drawing him in like a mosquito to the light. He spotted the first among many; a boy, around nine or ten, hunched over, wailing over a dead woman. The entourage stopped, their eyes all on the child. Montag stepped forward, but the sound of his boot accidentally scuffing alarmed the boy enough for him to spin around and cry out in horror. Montag held up his hands, standing as still as physically possible. He watched, waited for the boy to move towards him, but he simply stayed there, rooted to his spot, eyes wide as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Are you okay?" Montag took a step forward, his palm out as a sign of friendliness, of peace. The boy watched him warily, sniffling occasionally and shifting uncomfortably as Montag approached. He watched Montag, watched him move closer and closer until he was standing right in front of him. The boy looked up and suddenly, the boy was in his arms, clinging to him desperately while sobs poured loose from his mouth. "Mommy!" He wailed desperately and Montag could do nothing but hold him close, head bowed and his eyes shut.

Montag allowed his lids to open and when he turned back towards the men, a fiery look that screamed of steely determination was in his eyes. "Granger, divide the men into six search parties. We need to find any survivors we can." The men all stood there for a moment, slack-jawed, a new kind of admiration in their eyes. Granger stepped forward and nodded towards him, appearing to have been rejuvenated by Montag's declaration. "You've done good, Montag." He spoke and met his eyes, a small smile appearing on his face before it disappeared once more. "You've done good."

Throughout the rest of the day, the men scoured the city; looking for even a speck of livelihood. They had recovered a measly three hundred and seventy-three survivors; most were younger, along the lines of children and young teens who had orphaned in the bombing. There were some adults and a few were older people; they all stood in segregated groups, whispering, crying, shouting. Montag stood there, his eyes sweeping over the people, his lips pressed hard against one another as he took them in. He stepped down from the perch he had stood on; a crumbling building that had been easy enough for him to scale without him drawing too much attention to himself.

Moving towards the children's section, he spotted the boy he had rescued earlier; Donald was his name, Montag had discovered a few hours earlier. He was sitting off to the side, looking down at his balled up fists with a blank expression on his face. Montag stepped close and crouched, his eyes scrunching up in concern when Donald did nothing. "Donald?" Montag muttered smoothly, his hand coming up to rest of the boy's adjoined hands. Donald flinched back and glared up at Montag, who simply blinked at the boy's furious expression.

"She's dead." Donald spat and sharply turned his gaze away, allowing his head to snap to the side. Montag watched his profile for a moment, silently contemplating on his approach. "Yes." Montag stated, standing and moving to sit at the little boy's side. "Why?" Donald glanced up at him, his bottom lip trembling. Montag felt compassion-a rather rare emotion that he hadn't felt in who knew how long.

"Bad things happen, Donald." Montag allowed his arm to wrap around the boy's shoulders, squeezing gently. Donald turned into him, sniffling. Montag simply sat there, patting the boy's shoulders, all the while trying to control the last ten years of his life; Mildred smiling at him, Mildred cooking, Mildred slipping the seashells into her ears for the first time, Mildred slowly withdrawing from him, Mildred staying up to watch the first wall he had bought for her, Mildred not being able to sleep and having to take sleeping pills, Mildred overdosing. The last memory hit him like a truck; _Beaty stood at his side, smiling fiendishly as Montag stood, his disbelieving gaze on the house-his home, his sanctuary. He watched the door open, watched Mildred spill out onto the pavement, her steps quick and her eyes wide with terror._

_"Mildred!"_

_She dashed past him, ignoring him, barely acknowledging his existence as she ran towards the awaiting beetle-taxi at the end of the driveway. Her face was pale, but didn't hold its usually pristine perfection; she wore no makeup except for some powder that had been blotched on with no attempt to brush it away. "Mildred, you didn't put in the alarm!"_

_He watched her open the car door, clambering in awkwardly with the small suitcase she she held, muttering to herself disapprovingly. "Poor family, poor family, oh, everything gone, everything, everything gone now…"_

"Montag."

Montag was startled; he looked up sharply, his eyes meeting Granger's, who stood rather stiffly in front of him. "What are you doing?" He asked sharply and Montag blinked in surprise at his angry tone. Glancing to his side, he noticed the slumped body of Donald, who was sleeping peacefully against him, small snores escaping his opened mouth every now and then.

Carefully, he pried himself away from the boy and stood, his head lowering so that he could meet the shorter man's eyes. "Alright, Granger. What seems to be the trouble?" He asked calmly, his tone peaceful. Granger glared up at him for a moment, before his shoulders relaxed and he offered a friendly smile towards him. Montag was confused; Granger was confusing, a man with wisdom and mystery and yet, was open and as friendly as a child whose emotions moved from second to second.

"The people need someone to rally them. And since you're our leader-"

"When was this decided?" Montag asked curiously, a bit of mirth in his tone. Granger become serious, his face melting into one of cold indifference. "As soon as you stepped out of the shadows and I saw who you were." Granger confessed and nodded to himself, his gaze drifting off past Montag's head, looking up to the ash-filled sky. "Since you are our leader," Granger fixed Montag with a stare so fierce that he could do nothing but stare, "you are the one that shall have to lift them from the ashes and into the light. They need guidance and what more could anyone need than a man who has already risen himself?" Granger concluded and with a curt nod, turned on his heel, leaving Montag slack-jawed and amazed.

Montag began his walk to where he had once stood, briskly climbing the crumbling steps. He turned and raised his hands wide, palms out. The voices that had been speaking only a moment ago had died away and left Montag with a feeling of dread.

"Brothers! Sisters!" Montag heard himself cry out towards the multitude, his eyes beating down on them. "We have been through hell and back today; we have lost everything we've held dear and for what?" He began, his voice sounding meek in his own ears. A quiet murmur of disapproval spread throughout the crowd. Montag felt his eyes narrow and he squared his shoulders, holding his hand up as he awaited for silence to fall once more.

When no one dared to breathe a word, he opened his mouth once more and began to speak. "We did nothing wrong and yet, they decided that it was time for them to dispose of us. They killed our mothers, fathers; our brothers, sisters, cousins, our husbands, our wives-" Montag winced when he uttered the phrase, but continued on, knowing he had to. "They've slaughtered your children! Your very way of life was meant to be eradicated!" Montag cried with passion, his arms held out before him, his voice so earnest that the crowd had begun to slip under somewhat of a trance, their eyes wide as they listened to him, their minds beginning to cling desperately to his words.

"We must not allow them to take that from us! We must fight for our lives, our family's lives, our existence!" A deafening cry was heard from the crowd below and Montag took a step back, his eyes wide in shock as he watched them cheer, their fists raised high above their heads, their cries filling the solemn air with something akin to enthusiasm.

Quickly, he stepped down from the stand he had once stood on and in seconds, people were surging towards him, surrounding him and crying out his name is a loud cheer. "_Montag! Montag! Montag!_" They cried and Montag felt a small smile creep onto his face. Perhaps, there was reason to smile now, for now, he would finally get the rebellion he had craved since the moment Clarisse McClellan had first uttered her name.

* * *

**Hey, guys! I know I haven't worked on my other fanfics, which is horrible and bad, but I promise I will! I've been suffering from writer's block (CURSE YOU) and haven't really been motivated to write them. Now, I feel more motivated and will be updating soon.**

**Anyway, the story behind this is that I ended up reading this book a couple weeks ago and decided, since I love this book so much, to write a fanfic about it. So, I ended up writing all of this a couple weeks ago in the middle of the night on a gigantic sugar rush. (Kit kats are my kryptonite, okay? Don't judge me.)**

**I ended up completing it and since I have a big mouth and accidentally pressured myself into publishing it, I did. Whoops.**

**Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! Reviews are greatly appreciated!**

**xoxo,**

**RadicalThinker**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part I**

TASKED WITH THE IMPOSSIBLE

There was nothing out of the ordinary on the day that it all started. There was a multitude of people bustling about, their pristine clothes ironed and their leather shoes shined to perfection. Skyscrapers rose high into the air, their windows shining brightly in the early morning sun. The masses swept by, unperturbed by the bustle of life around them.

Through the crowd strode a man, tall and lanky. His gaze swept across the area, an air of defiance passing through his eyes, before he surged back into the crowd. It was merely a flicker, a small moment to take in the scenery. Not unusual, but not a typical occurrence. Something harmless. As he walked, his steps silent as he did, there was something that flicked through the air, a whisper of something sinister. It was only a moment later that the first explosion was heard.

**Boom!**

The sound of the explosions caused the flow of traffic to cease, the passengers jamming their feet against their brakes with undignified squeals. The cries of horror and outrage from the sea of pedestrians caused the man to pause and turn back his gaze fixed on the incredibly tall business building as the top half slid and crumpled half a block away. The crowd pushed and prodded away from the destruction, their frantic movements like animals locked into corrals, screaming and flinging themselves forward, trying desperately to distance themselves from the immediate danger.

Montag watched this, viewed it all with calm clarity. People were pushing past him and he allowed himself to drift towards the side of the walkway, gazing upon the broken pieces of rubble and concrete that littered the street like snowflakes flickering down from the sky.

He allowed a small smirk to highlight his features, a bittersweet feeling tugging at the pit of his stomach as he listened to the clear sound of sirens in the distance. The building gave a final shudder before it finally crumpled; a black smoke filling the atmosphere as people scampered away.

It was at this time, Montag fled. Turning on his heel, he followed after the crowd, trickling in behind them. The sirens passed by, but he kept running. He was focused; intent as he followed the sea of people, blundering buffoons that trampled whatever their feet found.

He slowed when he caught sight of the men in uniforms holding back the crowds, cramming together in a mass of distorted limbs and angered cries. Montag cast his gaze to the side, spotting an open alleyway. With little thought, he dashed inside, his eyes stinging from the crisp winter wind that tugged at his clothes and his cheeks.

"_Montag_?"

The voice startled him enough to make him stumble as he rounded a corner. He paused when he noticed the crowd on one side of the alley that led out to the street. He turned on his heel, fleeing as swiftly as possible, back into the darkened alleyway. He did not get a chance to respond; he was too busy trying to flee, trying to escape the storm inside his head. He was reminded of seven years ago and flames leapt through his vision.

After another moment, he paused, doubling in on himself as he struggled to breathe. He placed his hands on his knees and took deep, refreshing lungfuls of air. He could hear a voice in his head, but his ears were ringing, blocking out all noise except for his haggard breaths.

Somehow he had found his way into the lower districts; the areas where digital entertainment was few and poverty was high. His eyes moved down the street. Not many people were out right now. They were either working or in their houses, cleaning away their troubles with the help of a dirty rag and disinfectant.

"_Montag?! Montag, answer me_!"

As he straightened up, Montag suddenly felt the urge to laugh, for Granger's voice was so concerned, nearly pleading. He and Granger had grown close in the last seven years, each relying upon the other when it was needed. Granger was hard man who spoke little to others, but with as much wisdom as any scholar. Granger had turned to be a lovely inventor; he had been the one to create their secret hideaway with unparalleled ease, creating what Montag had even bothered to vocalize as a masterpiece.

He chuckled to himself for a moment, trying to appear calm and in order. "I'm fine, Granger." He stated with playful exaggeration, although the other man could not see his full performance. A snort was heard and Montag had to stifle a sudden chortle.

"_Now you tell me." _The old man muttered in annoyance. Montag could picture him now; pacing back and forth like an agitated jungle cat, hissing and spitting at all that came near.

"Oh, Granger; don't act like you wouldn't miss me." Montag could not suppress the laughter this time and it surged from his chest, warm and light and content. It was as though he had not just committed a crime minutes prior. His fingers twitched at the memory and a frown appeared on his face. He turned his eyes down to his twiddling thumbs and studied them sullenly, his mood somber.

As Montag began to listen once more, he could hear the older man spitting out several profanities, mostly directed at him. Montag could not contain the eye roll that accompanied his friend's actions. Although they were older, Granger had a tendency of acting like Montag was a child, reprimanding him when Montag had dug himself in too deep. _If only he knew_, Montag though bitterly.

He could hear Granger still yowling, clearly annoyed with his antics. Furrowing his brow, he listened for a few more moments, before his lips began to form words.

"Listen here, Granger."

Montag's tone had lost all the amusement that had once filled it and as he spoke, he could feel himself tensing, his shoulders rising to brush along the side of his jaw. "The deed is done. I'll check back into base in a few hours. Be sure to tell Donny that I'm fine."

"_Yes, sir_."

Montag smirked, his previous tension dissipating into untoned amusement. "Granger?"

"_What is it, Montag_?" Granger grumbled and Montag smiled, happy to know the man was begrudgingly listening. "Don't call me sir again."

"_Yes_," Montag raised his brows as he heard the pause over the line. "_Sir_."

The laugh that ripped through Montag's was loud and long, stretching through the air and hovering. Granger had stopped talking and the only thing that filled Montag's ears was static, grating and formal. It was a rather welcoming noise to hear. He opened his eyes and was greeted with the sight of children, who had stopped their playing and now were now staring curiously at the mad man who had begun cackling in the alleyway.

_Perhaps I am a little bit mad_, Montag mused to himself as he began to adjust his attire, straightening his pants with a quick flick of his wrist, the material riding up to his navel. Montag knew that if he were mad, he would not be standing where he was today. It did take someone with a bit of smarts to lead a revolution, after all.

Montag licked his lips nervously as he stepped out of the alleyway, his gaze hardening. He began to simply walk, allowing his feet to guide him to where he needed to be. He never broke stride, never paused; he simply wandered for the next few hours around town, stopping to buy a few supplies that he carried with a cloth bag that he had slid into his jacket before he had left. He kept the bag on his shoulder and passed unnoticed by the crowds, who never paused in their tasks. They were too consumed by their own creations.

Most of them had seashells in their ears, their eyes dazed as they continued on through their dismal existence. Montag nearly curled his lips at these people, but had to reprimand himself. They were not educated in the way of books, the way of life that gave people the reason to live. They did not know how to cast aside their shackles and rise up against their unknown dictators.

His fingers twitched as he walked, his gaze flickering as he went. He could feel nervousness tingling in his every move; the way his lips pulled down at odd intervals, the crease in his brow that appeared every few moments. By the time he had reached the street, he had nearly worked himself into a tizzy. Perhaps he would be recognized..?

_No_, he thought to himself furiously, shaking his head at the very idea. A few people cast him strange looks before continuing on to their destination, wondering why such an odd man was allowed out in a society such as this.

He was angry at himself as he rounded the corner. His steps wavered and he glanced up, unsure as to whether he should proceed._ You have a mission to carry out; there is no time for second guessing yourself. _He thought determinately as he began to walk once more.

It took him a lifetime to reach the opposite corner. At least, it felt like it. His eyes drifted across the wreckage with something akin to guilt. There were still small bits of flame, gleaming brightly against the darkened skies, stroking the air with a fierce intensity.

His steps became slow as he paused across the way. People had begun to walk down the street once more. Any debris that had littered the street earlier had been cleared and cars zoomed down the road, driving recklessly as they rushed to their destination. He was a mere pedestrian, loitering in the streets once more. His gaze then looked on the firefighters across the way from him, their yellow uniforms shining brightly as they fought against the fire valiantly. A few units had been established after the total destruction of the cities by the government, an excuse in case anything serious ever occurred.

He watched the men complete their work without enthusiasm, his eyes tracing over their figure with distaste. These were people blind sighted; they were without knowledge, without integrity. He felt the overwhelming urge to laugh or to gag, or perhaps both. His fingers twitched and he glanced down, glaring at his fingers with a sinister look of betrayal.

When he looked up once more, it was in time to watch the men get into their large beetles, to gather their useless materials and scatter, leaving the building merely smoking, ash and misfortune sticking to him as though it were glue, engulfing him until he was smothering.

_No one was hurt_, Montag tried to remind himself and shook his head, trying to find a sliver of clarity in his own conscious. _They left the building. It's abandoned. No one was hurt. No one was killed. It was just a message. _

When Montag looked up, he spotted someone across the street, standing still and facing his direction. For a moment, Montag was confused. Had she stopped to fix their clothing, to perhaps adjust a seashell?

He watched her for a long moment, the duo simply staring at each other. Through the moonlight and the bright streetlights, Montag was able to see the silhouette that stood opposite of him, arms prone at her side.

Montag could tell it was a woman; no amount of baggy clothing could conceal the subtle slope of her hips, the small amount of cleavage that poked out from beneath the sweater she wore. His gaze moved to her features and he openly gaped, his jaw falling open in shock.

A shock of blonde hair, a round face, a delicate nose, full lips. Montag felt as though someone had splashed him with cold water and he was breathless, somehow finding the gaze of her eyes; those warm cerulean eyes that swam with so much depth that Montag was pulled back to that night, that night that had changed it all for him.

"Clarisse." Montag breathed.

The woman opposite of him smiled sweetly, as if she had heard him across the street. He watched her turn on her heels and scamper down the sidewalk, shooting his a teasing glance that he caught before she disappeared in the crowd. In an instant, Montag was after her, his eyes never leaving her figure from across the way. He pushed and prodded his way past people, hearing them curse at him before going back to walking. His heart was hammering wildly as he scurried after her. By this time, they were neck in neck, each trying to outrun the other, their gazes moving towards another as they tried to maneuver throughout the crowd.

The wind had begun to whip his cheeks once more as he dashed down the street, watching her duck around others on the opposite side. His heartbeat was ringing through his ears, his heart nearly leaping from her chest as he pushed his body onward, ignoring the burning sensation that began to flow in his very veins. She was lithe; a beautiful storm as she whirled around a man and leapt over another who was tying his shoe.

Montag was surprised to hear her laughter from across the street and he bristled, forcing himself onward as quickly as possible. His eyes landed on some uniformed men, the ones who had held the crowd back earlier. They were leaning against a building, lounging and laughing among them. It was an odd sight and the two parties stared curiously at each other for a mere second. Montag brushed past them, nervously diverting his eyes, but they simply watched him pass with a look of mild curiosity.

As he neared the corner, he continued onward. Up ahead, he watched as Clarisse rounded the corner. He could see the top of her head as she began to run across the road. She was heading away from the center of the city and if he didn't catch her soon, he would lose her.

He dashed into traffic and ran as quickly as possible, his eyes straight ahead. He could hear someone scream, but he continued on. The sounds of the beetles breaking had him nearly frantic to reach the other side. He was on the opposite side of the road quickly, but did not stop when he heard the uniformed men following after him, cursing and shouting at his retreating form. He cursed silently to himself. If he caught her, he most certainly would ring her neck for getting him in trouble. As if he needed that!

Whatever had happened to her in the last years had surely made her fast. Montag was near panting as he followed after her, his eyes never leaving her figure. She ran into a darkened street and Montag followed. The street was devoid of life and he pushed on. He was closing the distant between them and fast. He could hear her gasp, her feet slamming against the pavement as she dashed around the corner into a darkened alleyway.

It was a maze of twists and turns which made Montag rather annoyed. He was so close now, so close that he could reach out and grab her. He pushed himself forward and grasped at her shoulder, spinning her around. She made a noise halfway between a snarl and a scream, before her knee connected swiftly with his gut.

As he bent to clutch at his stomach, her knee raced up to hit his mouth, the force propelling him onto his back. He lay there, breathless and dazed for a long moment, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps.

It took him several moments before he was able to push himself up onto his knees. Reaching for his shoulder, he found that he had lost his bag. Glancing about, he spotted it lying several feet away near the mouth of the alleyway. As he retrieved it, a small paper fell to the damp asphalt. He was amazed to see his name written across the front.

Still a little bit breathless, he opened the palm-length card and scanned it warily, his eyebrows raising high on his brow.

**_Dear Montag,_**

**_Watch out. There are forces at work that even you cannot defeat._**

**_Sincerely,_**

**_A concerned old friend_**

Montag reread the same words over and over, a sudden anger pumping through his veins. Snapping his eyes up in annoyance, he cried out boisterously, his fists clenched at his sides. He had been on a mission and she had distracted him, caught his attention with her sudden appearance.

"He's over here!"

Montag snapped out of his rage in an instant, turning his head in the direction of the voices. He let loose a mute string of profanities, his gaze surrounding the surrounding vicinity intently. He found what he was looking for quickly; an innocent looking manhole sat in the middle of the deserted street. Moving quickly, he pried the cover away, growing increasingly agitated as the voices loomed close.

He slipped inside and grabbed the cover, sliding it into place. He could hear them running, hear their viscous yells as they searched. He quickly slipped the lid in place, clutching the ladder he stood on with sweaty palms as he waited. He could hear their footsteps now, walking down the street and searching. He stayed there for a long time, long after their footsteps had faded away into the quiet calmness of the night.

Montag finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Letting go of the ladder with one hand, he reached into his coat and removed the firelight he always carried, clicking the button on and shining the light around his surroundings. He was close to the base, he realized with a mixture of relief and worry. His nose wrinkled when the stench of the sewer hit his senses.

He began to breathe through his mouth and climbed down, his grip never wavering. As he reached the bottom, he allowed himself to drop on the concrete, shaking his head to clear away whatever thought polluted him mind.

"Granger?" He barked out, flicking the bullet still lodged in his ear. There was several long moments where only static greeted his ears.

"_Yes, Montag_?"

Montag was able to breathe a sigh of relief, his body becoming less tense. "I've just completed my task. I'm heading back home."

"_Alright, Montag. See you back at base_."

Montag smiled and hoisted the pack over his shoulder, continuing on his way. A sudden thought made him stop and he furrowed his brows. He had a whole new different problem now; his mission hadn't been compromised for he had seen the charred concrete, the smoking pile of what had once been a great piece of architecture. Something was nagging his mind and he rubbed the bridge of his nose, remembering back to a few minutes prior.

"A concerned old friend, eh?" He muttered to himself and shook his head. He had been in for a shock tonight. Not once he had expected or even dreamed of. It had been a dash of hope, seeing her standing only twenty feet away, eyes blazing and lips pressed into a smile. A rather warm feeling filled his abdomen as he remembered her body and how it had changed. She was a woman now; not a child filled with silly notions and invasive questions.

He sighed in annoyance at himself and began on once more. She had run from him. Her entire demeanor had unnerved him. Perhaps she had changed. Became what she had tried to deny herself all these years. Had she become a slave like the rest of them? _Never._

The thought was swift and delivered confidently. It was as if he had spoken aloud. He felt a smile growing on his cheeks.

Somewhere, in the back on Montag's mind, he had a sneaky suspicion that he would see Clarisse McLellan sometime soon. Now that he knew she was alive, he had the chance to find her, to talk to her. Now that he knew she was out there, he would not stop. "See you soon, old friend." He whispered quietly before he began to walk once more, smiling to himself all the while.

* * *

**DO YOU GUYS HAVE ANY CLUE ABOUT HOW BAD I FREAKING FEEL ABOUT BEING SO LATE IN UPDATING?!**

**I'm such a mess and I apologize so, so much for it. Life has been as hectic and confusing as possible, but now that I'm free from all my responsibilities for a week *cough* SPRING BREAK *cough* I am finally able to update. **

**Thank you all for reading and I hope you like it. **

**If you enjoy this story, don't forget to favorite, follow, or review! **

**It really makes my day. **

**xoxo, **

**Radical Thinker**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part II**

ANALYSIS OF THE PAST

It was a slow walk back to headquarters. It was particularly aggravating in the dark where he would stumble and shrink back from the shrieks of untamed rats and the clamoring of water through the system, the occasional sound of a dripping pipe meeting his ears. Montag was distracted by the turn of events, the paper in his hands being smoothed by trembling thumbs. On the fourth time he tripped, he knew he had to sit back and think for a moment. Moving in the dark, he leaned back against the same brick wall that stretched for miles underneath the city and sighed, his shirt riding up as he slid back against the wall. His head collapsed forward into his chest and he brought his hands up, concealing his eyes as he took shuddering breaths. Eyes blinking, he leaned back and stared into the nothingness of the underground, his lips parted as he tried not to fall apart.

Seeing Clarisse had been a jolt to his system; all those years ago, he had watched his life crumble, blood staining his hands and his eyes straining to watch the dust settle over the corpses of millions. He sat there, not bothering to count the minutes, simply thinking and remembering and withering without the stares of those cruel enough to judge. He didn't cry. His eyes had been dry for several years. The last time he had cried had been when he was watching the city crumble from the sky itself downwards, leaving a chasm of destruction and death in the wake of lingering defiance and adrenaline.

As he sat, his hands toyed with the paper once more, the small sounds a minimal comfort to him. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he stood, his knees wobbly from sitting for so long. Montag merely sighed, the warmth of the air reminding him that he was human. He began his journey once more and was shocked when he heard Granger's voice, gruff and annoyed. "_Are you done moping, your highness?_"

The laugh that left Montag was breathless and quiet, a more amused chuckle over anything else. The sorrow that had crashed to the surface once more subsided, leaving Montag feeling less hollow and more akin to himself. "Granger, I'm going. I just-" He paused, listening to the crackle of the bullet before he once more spoke. "I'll tell you later. I'll be there soon. Tell Donald, okay?' He spoke and listened to Granger's quiet guffaw. "_The kid won't stop bothering me. He's the one who told me to contact you. Not my fault you're a drama queen who takes a million years to walk back._"

"Alright, I get it, man. I'll be there soon." Montag grabbed the bullet and yanked it from his ear, pressing the switch to turn it off. The rest of his journey was uneventful, fingers fluttering awkwardly as he made the well-worn track he was all too familiar with. The entrance to the base was completely bland as he approached; a small grate that he maneuvered himself towards, crossing the bridge that led to the outcropping of concrete it was nestled against. Shoving his index finger into one of the holes, he spun the metal grating until a gentle mechanical squeal was released. A line appeared and he quickly removed his hand as the mechanical doors slid open to reveal glowing light. The lanterns had been dimmed well enough that he wasn't blinded from the abrupt change to total darkness. Stepping forward, he moved to the panel on his side and tapped in the code. The gentle metal grating returned as the entrance sealed. He felt the first sense of relief he had felt since before this whole operation had begun. He leaned forward, eyes shut tight to simply press his forehead against the wall. Stress and grief always seemed to have a funny time of appearing in Montag's life and tonight, with no one around and his steel control slipping as it had all those years ago, was no exception. He just needed another moment, he concluded to himself as he breathed deeply, his chest constricting painfully tight. He was startled by a sound on the stones steps to his left. He turned, the entrance looming between him and the two individuals making their way towards him.

The older man was a very familiar face, as was the lanky blonde youth at his side who was rushing towards him. "Guy!" Donald cried as he ran forward and clutched as Montag's ash-filled coat. Montag turned to allow the boy to hold him close to him, wrapping his taller frame over the young man's shoulders.

A fatherly urge had led to the young child's adoption when their community had first began to develop. He had never asked him to consider him as a replacement as his birth father and Donald had never felt inclined to reclaim the term father for his fatherly figure, but it was nothing other but a parent-child bond that had developed between the pair. It was with excitement the young boy let go and smiled blindingly. "How'd it go?" He asked excitingly to his guardian with unparalleled curiosity. It was met with a somewhat broken smile and disheartening silence that left the youth awkwardly allowing his arms to drop to his sides. "Montag?" Granger called quietly to the man who was staring at his young ward with downtrodden eyes.

"Perhaps we'll talk more in the morning, Donald." Montag managed to get out before he was walking down the steps and down the main corridor with something akin to defeat causing his usually broad shoulders to hunch. The pair stared wordlessly after the man for a moment before turning to the other with curiosity evident in their expression. "What was that about?" Donald asked warily, stepping closer to the older man who was busy eying the retreating back of his long-term friend. "I'm not quite sure yet. However…" He murmured and turned back to the young lad with something almost mischievous hidden in his always weary gaze. "I'll go see to him. Go get some rest, son." He muttered, calloused fingers moving to lightly pat the young man's head with unyielded affection. "Make sure he's okay, Granger. Please." The young boy pleaded, before hurrying down the steps and hurrying down a corridor to the right that led to the sleeping barracks.

It was with a weathered sigh that Granger followed after his wayward leader, blending unceremoniously with the shadows that plagued the hallway. He continued his trek for several minutes, ignoring the occasional pair of eyes that watched his frame from a partially opened door in the corridor.

Ever since that day all those years ago, their numbers had grown, sweeping up into the hundreds until they had a little over a thousand. That thousand had been a starting point and had only continued to grow. There now were several thousand people to care for, to nourish, to make sure survive the perils of this world. Some of their gazes are harrowing and a few are agonizingly calculating, staring at their second-in-command with something akin to distrust. It is with these in mind that Granger follows after his leader with whatever dignity he can scrape together in these moments. It's not long before he's descending the steps towards the control center and pausing at the mechanical entrance. He's never really been unsure in these moments for the cause; he gave up his family for this, his job, everything he had known for words within a collection of pages. Yet, it was with these words that the whole structure of his world changed. Glancing at the door, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed in annoyance. "Why do I feel like I'm raising teenagers again?" He murmured to himself before entering the code and entering.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust but when they did, he noticed the back of Montag's head in a chair placed in the middle of the room. Granger was used to people's expressions. He had been a witness to a plethora of them within his lifetime; ranging from degree to degree, emotion to emotion. The one he saw on Montag's when he rounded his chair was new to him however. He looked so weary, yet the clench of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes said otherwise. It looked akin to determination, yet there was a lack of furrowed brow on his features. "Montag?" Granger inquired, his hands moving closer to the man who sat on the chair. He didn't bother to touch him, but he still felt the need to offer his hands as a means of solace. Granger watched as Montag turned his eyes up to him and was met with a now expressionless mask. "Granger." The man in the chair greeted quietly and Granger nodded his head at the expression. He felt too tense to speak and was unsure as to whether he should offer any sort of comfort.

"Today was a rather strange day," Montag began, "who knew just how exhausting it would be to blow up a building and then meet your formally meant-to-be deceased neighbor." This sentence was said with as much gusto as discussing the weather. "I guess some days are meant to be more remarkable than others." Granger answered cordially and was met with a guffaw of laughter. Montag may have been too tired or Granger too weary, but only the black-haired man continued his mental combustion in the chair, his laughter loud and mechanical. It was only a few moments later that he stopped, but that didn't stop Granger from being grateful. "Montag, talk to me." He commanded and then moved his hand to grasp the said man's shoulders. "You're not yourself and seem scared and I'm damn well not gonna watch you suffer when I'm here to listen. So, snap out of whatever strange mood you're in and talk to me."

Montag shook his head and sighed, leaning back in his chair to sweep skeletal fingers through his hair. He had lost weight ever since his descent from above ground. Up there, he had ate and barely worked out, preferring to sit idly or casually stroll about town. He had always been interested in watching the families, but that had began to change when he first began to become self-aware. The day he had come home to Mildred laying flat on her back, rasping out shallow breaths while her seashells filled the room with an unintelligible murmur had been the day he had refused to sit by her side. Down here, there was little provisions to be distributed and he was more than willing to give up his meal for a child.

He met Montag's eyes with disinterest and touched his mouth. "I said that it was a strange day, that's all. It's just that; I have never had a day where I've been more shocked since the destruction of this city and this time, it's actually personal. I knew her, Granger, and seeing her now is..." He stood and moved towards the man, Granger's turning his eyes down to stare into Montag's. The man stood well above Guy by over three inches, yet Montag was the more well built man between the two.

"We all lost someone, Montag." Granger murmured quietly and Montag lowered his gaze. Even though they were only a few years apart, Granger had been the only one to have children with his wife. "Yes, I know." Montag said back quietly and turned, making his way up the stairs and out of the room. It wasn't meant to offend, yet Granger couldn't help but let out his groan of frustration. Meanwhile, Montag made his way down the hallway, scrutinized under the same eyes and whispered conversations that Granger had endured earlier. The very dim lights of the corridor helped illuminate his path. He continued walking until he was able to make it to his own unit where he quickly typed in his keycode and entered. Sighing, he rubbed his hands over his eyes and groaned.

"Guy?" He heard and glanced towards his bed, noticing Donald sitting there, gripping the sheets anxiously. "Hey, kiddo." Guy groaned and moved to the bathroom, leaving the door open so Donald would be able to say what he wanted to say without interruption. "I'm sorry that you're going through this, Montag. I really am." Donald's voice had taken an uneven tone and he breathed raggedly for a few moments. The nurturing side of Guy kicked in and he breathed in, moving back towards his room to wrap his arms around the young man's shoulders. "I'm perfectly fine, kid. Don't worry about me; that's supposed to be my job for you." He teased and moved to pat the boy's shoulders. It was without ceremony that the boy stood and hugged him back tightly. "I'm heading to bed." The boy muttered against his mentor's shoulders before pulling away and moving towards the exit. "Oh, and Montag?" The boy called and Montag couldn't help the roll of his eyes as he turned.

"Happy birthday!"

The words were spoken and hung in the air, even after Donald's departure. Birthdays hadn't been celebrated in such a long time within the underground. Children were given gifts, teenagers were given congrats, and the adults usually left their own unspoken and forgotten except for themselves and perhaps their own friends, if they had even bothered to share the information. Montag had been in the few who had told his birthday, but he hadn't expected anyone to remember it, let alone wish him to have a happy one.

Slowly, he made his way to the bathroom once more, closing the door to just breathe. His head was stuck between spinning and seeking to be blank, a stark contrast that left him washed out after the day's events. "Ah, well." He hummed to himself and stood in front of the mirror, taking the moment to look over his features. Behind the small amount of dirt that had accumulated during his visit above ground and his journey through the sewers, he looked the same. He still held his prominent cheekbones, thick brows and chocolate eyes; all normal, the things he had grown to understand. Yet, as he met his own gaze in the mirror, he couldn't help but to seek the changes he had developed in the last few years. Wrinkles touched the corners of his eyes and a stubble adorned his jaw, leaving a more haggard impact on him. It wasn't what he had imagined he would see in his younger years, but now, he felt it suited him just fine. It was with this that he huffed and laughed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Materialism never truly suited me." He murmured to himself and shook his head.

He was about to leave the restroom when he glanced at himself once more in the mirror and sighed. "Happy birthday, you idiot." He grumbled before moving towards his bedroom to retire for the night.

**I always find myself back at this fanfiction after a year of not updating. It's a terrible habit, but something I don't see myself trying to correct, as my other stories and personal life influence my decision in updating this story. Anyways, besides the fact that I am terrible to the fans of this story, I still hope you continue to read it whenever you are able. Also, I just wanted to inform you that through the years, my writing style has changed, but I still strive to imitate and shape the story line in the same charming and devastatingly beautiful way Bradbury did in the source material.**

**xoxo,**

**Radical Thinker**


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